


my participation in your sufferings

by kirael



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Character Study, French Revolution, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Multi, Other, discussions about the growing radicality of the french revolution, sorta - Freeform, the confines of nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirael/pseuds/kirael
Summary: Going back to France. Bringing freedom to his people when given the chance.(A focus on Lafayette, after America.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> historical notes at the end
> 
> abandoned bc no one cared abt this and i crave attention like a mosquito craves blood

Thomas Jefferson arrives, carrying only a single small bag and a violin case. He looks strangely small, detached from all the finery that had followed him in America.

"I didn't know you played," Lafayette says, in French, languidly watching Thomas unpack.

Thomas shrugs. 

"You can stay as long as you want," Lafayette informs Thomas. "I suspect your newfound nation can survive a little bit without you. Besides, I need you here."

Thomas's face goes through an infinite myriad of emotions - dark, bitter, pleased, angered, pained - until he settles on an expression of calm, steady passiveness.

"I'd be honored."

-

To say that Lafayette spends the first summer he's home in melancholic laziness would be an understatement. What he mostly remembers from that time is long, drawn out evenings drinking wine among the grapevines punctuated with brief bouts of feverish writing, passing the words back and forth and back and forth until they emerge with a full document Thomas proudly brandishes as the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen.

"Reminds me of a Virginian summer," Thomas says, in English, staring out into the rolling fields, the countryside which Lafayette had spent most of his early childhood.

Lafayette wipes his brow of the sweat beading up on his forehead. The air is sickly sweet, thick like dark molasses, tinged with the muted violet of red wine.

"I'm told that Virginia’s climate is similar to Auvergne," Lafayette replies evenly, in English as well, though he applies his accent to the name of "Auvergne."

Thomas's hand twitches.

Lafayette glances back into his manor, where he can hear the chatter of his servants, cleaning up and cooking their evening meal.

"Would you mind regaling me with your violin?" Lafayette asks, this time switching to French.

Thomas spares a quick glance at Lafayette before getting up in one smooth, fluid movement and walking inside.

Lafayette waits, taking small sips of his wine. He wonders how his friends are doing. Of course, he gets letters and reads the news, but it's not the same. Not at all.

And then there's the matter of his Général Washington, who he hasn’t talked to in – god, over a year. From what he's heard, he's doing quite well for himself. President. What an odd title.

Thomas steps back outside, holding his beloved violin in his hands. He's only played it twice in the entire time he's been here, and each time he'd prefaced it with, "I'm a little rusty."

This time, however, Thomas only takes a deep breath and starts playing.

Lafayette has never been one for music. He was taught piano when he was younger, but those memories faded away years ago until he can only remember his piano teacher holding onto his hands, saying the names of each note as he touches his fingers to the keys. He’d quit, eventually, after he was first brought to Paris with his mother, too caught up in the hustle and bustle of his studies and city life.

He never knows if Thomas composes on the spot or if he plays from a memorized song. He doesn't particularly care.

As the first strains of music sounds from the violin, Lafayette leans back and closes his eyes.

Melancholic and lazy.

-

“They’ve appointed me Secretary of State,” Thomas says over dinner.

Lafayette stares at him, almost dropping his utensil. “They can do that? Even when you’re here, in France?”

Thomas doesn’t exactly smile. It looks like one, sure, but the planes of his face pull more towards a grimace. “It’s a new world, Lafayette. No traditions set in place over hundreds of years, no pre-existing regulations. Washington sets a precedent for the future.”

"I'm leaving," Lafayette says.

Thomas stares at him, slightly astonished.

"I know," Lafayette says. "I'm needed here." But the French sentiment toward the king is eroding, and if Lafayette delays any longer he's afraid he'll never get a chance to find the time to go back. "I'll be back."

At that, the tension in Thomas's shoulders leaves, and Lafayette is left contemplating what he'll need to pack.

"I'll be going to Paris, then," Thomas says.

Paris. The center of the French empire. A large (and growing) city with almost a fifth of the entire population, a far cry from the lavish, jewel studded Versailles.

"Paris," Lafayette repeats.

Thomas nods, his curls bouncing along with him. "I'm to meet John Adams."

The vice president, Lafayette hears, is a man not to be underestimated. He hears. "Officially, then? As the Secretary of State?" Lafayette asks.

Thomas nods again, furiously, this time.

“Greet my dear Adrienne and the children for me while you’re there?” He’s aware of his hypocrisy – calling her dear when he barely sees her, only writes to her in indulgently loving tones and sends their children off to the best schools in all of France. Louis XVI would be jealous.

“Of course,” Thomas says.

"Well," Lafayette says, "I wish you luck."

Thomas replies that he wishes Lafayette the same.

Their parting is respectful and sweet, generally, but as Lafayette sits down to draft a letter, he can't help but feel like he's missed something.


	2. Chapter 2

Lafayette knows he can get a little emotional; after all, who abandons everything they have for a cause they barely have a part in?

But there's a man in front of him, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in his full military regalia, talking quietly with one of his advisors, and Lafayette is barely thinking when he throws himself forward and starts kisses Washington ear to ear.

Little doubt of how the news plans to spin this: President Washington has emotional meeting with former French general! Tears will be shed; heartstrings will be tugged.

Lafayette can feel Washington's arms slowly circle around his body, hesitant, the warm weight of his hands on Lafayette's back, the stiffness slowly seeping out of his body.

Lafayette wonders if he's crying; surely the wetness trailing down his cheeks is something else – sweat, perhaps.

He sinks, nevertheless, into the welcoming arms of Washington.

-

"I apologize for the display," Lafayette says when they're sitting in private. He feels his face heat up, suddenly self-conscious of his accent.

"No need," Washington says, voice a low rumble.

As Lafayette looks at him, he can only marvel at how little Washington's changed. Sure, there are a few more wrinkles, but he looks healthy and strong.

"How's France?" Washington asks, a little awkward, unsteady. That's new.

Lafayette shrugs. "I'm sure you know better than I," he says. "I fear the mobs will not be able to be stopped. For now, they stand with the crown, but the future is unpredictable."

"Your allegiances lie with the king?" Washington asks. Despite the landmine of a question, Washington sounds level, non-judgmental.

Lafayette pauses. "Yes," he finally says. "You must understand, mon général, France is different from what happened here. We have run on nobility for hundreds of years, and only recently have we attempted a democracy or even anything to close to it. We must not be hasty."

Washington shakes his head. "I'm afraid it will be hasty nonetheless. Revolutionaries are already calling for blood."

"Then they will not get it," Lafayette says firmly. His influence may be thin, for the moment, but Lafayette will pull on the fragile thread that connects him to the king until it either snaps or the king relents.

"Perhaps," Washington says. “How well can you hold back the tides of revolution? I’m afraid I can’t help but draw parallels to our own struggle against the British monarchy.”

“The tides of revolution can’t be held back,” Lafayette says. “But I will dedicate to softening the strength of those waves.”

Washington hesitates before speaking. “Mr. Jefferson believes the people will overthrow the king and establish a republic in its place,” he says.

“Thomas is an idealist,” Lafayette snaps back, then immediately regrets it as the words escape, almost overly aggressive.

Washington leans back in his chair, holding his hands together in front of him. “The tree of liberty,” he says slowly, “must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” A quote from a public letter sent out by a writer to the major newspapers in the United States. Anonymous, _supposedly_ , though everyone and their mother was aware that it was Thomas.

“Thomas means well,” Lafayette says. “I know he does. But he would do well to not interject his opinion where it doesn't fit. France is not fit for a republic, not now. That is the unavoidable truth."

"There are people who say your nobility shrouds you from the truth."

Lafayette scowls. Hasn't he heard that often enough - too conservative for the radicals, too radical for the conservatives. He sat in the middle and often let both sides slip through his fingers. "I would disavow my title if I could." The words echo emptily in the cold silence of the room. Lafayette barely believes it himself. Luckily, Washington doesn't ask the dreaded question - "So why can’t you?" - and instead changes the topic.

"I’m thinking of retiring to Mount Vernon when my term finishes,” Washington says. “If your country has sorted itself out by then, I’d like to invite you to join me.”

Lafayette doesn’t bother holding back his laughter. “Thinking ahead already?” he asks. “Has Alexander and Thomas tired you out already?”

Washington smiles. “I can barely imagine what they’ll be like when Mr. Jefferson comes back. They argue enough with thousands of miles of distance between them.”

“Thomas reads me the letters,” Lafayette offers. He imagines Thomas and Alexander, facing each other off in the cabinet. He hopes they don’t devolve into screaming too soon.

Washington relates a story to him about Alexander coming up to him one day only to angrily yell about Thomas and how he’s objectively the worst, and in reply Lafayette shares the best ways to calm Thomas down when he’s all worked up. They end up talking until the sun is up, and then Lafayette can only usher Washington to bed – “I may not be as young as I was, but I assure you I can handle some loss of sleep.”

“Mon général, I can see you yawning.”

-

Lafayette spends the next month or so at Washington's house in Philadelphia.

It's not a quiet affair by far. Guests are constantly coming in and out, and at one point James Madison enters, finds a spare room, and then passes out.

When he wakes, Lafayette offers him a cup of tea, which he takes graciously.

"I'm working on a bill of rights," Madison says, in his calm, even voice. "It was actually Thomas's idea."

"Thomas seems enamored with the idea of a bill of rights," Lafayette muses. "We wrote one, together, for France."

"I've read it," Madison says. "A good piece of work."

James Madison is solidly sullen, and for the entire time he stays in Washington's house, he mostly keeps to himself.

Alexander barges in two weeks in and sweeps past Lafayette, heading straight to Washington.

"Sir," Alexander says, panting slightly, a little out of breath.

Washington gets this funny little look of exasperation on his face - a slightly annoyed sort of affection. "Sit down, Hamilton," he says. "You're just in time for dinner."

Alexander stops in his tracks, dropping his portable writing desk on the table and glancing around. When his eyes land on Lafayette, Alexander barely manages to hide the shock in his face. "Lafayette?"

Madison starts coughing.

Lafayette feels his lips curl into a smile. "I'm visiting for the month," he says.

"Well," Alexander says, pulling out a chair and plopping into it, "I can't imagine why you didn't tell me sooner."

"You're always so busy, Alexander. You hardly answer my letters; how am I to expect you'd take time out of your day to meet me?"

"Mr. Hamilton," Madison interupts, "would you pass me the sauce?"

The dinner conversation is achingly polite, but Lafayette can feel the tension in the air when Alexander starts talking to Madison, or vice versa. There's a story there, one Lafayette is unsure of whether or not he'll be able to pry out.

"Gilbert, you should come over someday," Alexander says in French. Alexander's accent is vastly different from the refined Parisian tones or even the slow, drawling vowels of the French Lafayette grew up with. 

"To New York?" Lafayette says.

“Yes,” Alexander says. “My Betsey would love to see you.”

“I’ll be sure to visit when I’m heading home.”

“I do hope that won’t be soon, then.” Alexander leans forward, the front of his shirt dipping slightly into the soup bowl placed in front of him.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to be sailing back at the end of the month.”

James Madison’s eyes dart between the two of them. “Sirs,” Madison says, in English, just as Alexander opens his mouth to speak, “it would be unwise to leave President Washington out of the conversation.”

Washington shoots Madison an unreadable look.

Lafayette, of course, is mortified. He can feel his face heating up, his skin surely flushing dark and vivid. “My apologies,” he says quickly. “It was not my intention. Alexander and I were merely discussing my travelling arrangements.

Washington arches an eyebrow. “Leaving so soon?” he asks mildly.

“I’m afraid so,” Lafayette replies. "It's lucky enough I was able to get away for this long."

"Then you'll just miss Mr. Jefferson," Washington says. "He'll be sailing back at around the same time."

"A shame, I'm sure," Alexander mutters.

"Alexander," Lafayette says, diverting the topic, "you complain I stay for too short of a time, yet do nothing yourself to come visit my own home country." It's not a serious statement at all. Alexander is much too busy with the affairs of his own country, and besides, Alexander hardly harbors any of the unrestrained adoration for France Lafayette has for America.

But Alexander doesn't reply with any of those excuses. "I'm afraid Betsey needs me here."

Lafayette tries (and utterly fails) to hide his look of surprise. Alexander had never been a family man, and-

"Odd enough that you're here, in Philadelphia, then," Madison says smoothly.

"A few days’ worth of travel is nothing compared to a few months," Alexander retorts. He frowns and spares a darting glance at Lafayette. "Of course, Monsieur Lafayette, no one here is commenting on your own familial status."

What? "Pardon?"

Madison's face is silent and stiff. "Mr. Hamilton, that's far too inappropriate-"

"What he means to say," Washington says, cutting in, "is that Madame de Lafayette's devotion to her husband must be powerful to be able to still be so strong after your ten years of marriage."

Oh. Oh. The thing is, Lafayette knows he's not been exactly the best husband. He fled to America to fight in a war for years on end, then running back home with Thomas Jefferson while abandoning her and his children in Paris with barely a word. He's hardly the model for an attentive husband, even compared to Alexander.

Carefully avoiding making eye contact with Lafayette, Madison says, "I hear you've named your first son after the President."

"And my daughter after his state," Lafayette says, pleased to find his feet in this conversation, even if he can't see the ground yet.

Washington's eyes widen slightly. "Oh," he says. "Monsieur de Lafayette, you flatter me."

"As is appropriate for the man who almost single-handedly won the war for liberty.

Lafayette doesn’t think it’s possible for Washington’s face to grow any darker, and he doesn’t stifle the laughter bubbling up inside him.

His first peal of laughter slices through the growing tension in the room, and before long even Madison has returned to calmly cutting up his meat.

**Author's Note:**

> yell @ me: [duckmoles](http://duckmoles.tumblr.com)


End file.
